Tuesday, 24 December 2013

Dan Briggs heaved a
sigh of relief as he reached up to release the heavy metal hooks which held
open the large double doors of The Swan. Closing time at last!

The
customers, in fact the whole world, seemed to be convinced that the Christmas
trade made publicans laugh all the way to the bank. If only they knew! Tonight, Christmas Eve had been hectic. True,
takings were high and that should be good for him, his business and his family.
Family. That word echoed round in his mind until his
head was spinning.

Outwardly he enjoyed
his role as the local publican, being at the centre of the village life along
with the church. Inwardly his heart was aching. Still he had a public to serve
and a position in the community to maintain. He had spent some of his profits
to ensure that there was a room for families when necessary. He was also the
sponsor of the village darts team. There
were a number of small rooms scattered round the old pub, often used by village
organisations for their committee meetings; they all added to the takings. Everything
one would require in a small village pub. Most of his regulars were local
farmers but some were commuters who enjoyed the peace and quiet of the
countryside and being away from their busy city lives. His North Country
candour meant that he spoke his mind at all times and they appreciated him all
the more for that.

He
had delighted in the style that he had brought to the pub. There was a long bar
of polished walnut. The brass beer pumps stood proud and highly polished, each
with the name of the sponsoring brewery. Behind the bar there was a high mirror
which enabled all the immaculately clean glasses and shorts bottles to shine
brightly. Alongside the bar there were a few high stools made of beech. These
too were polished and maintained regularly. After all, some of his farmer
customers were broad in the beam!

As
he stood in the doorway, the light from the porch cut a giant wedge in the
snow. With his arms akimbo and feet
planted wide apart, his eyes followed his shadow as it stretched out across the
snow and rose up the little hill in front of the pub. The sky was a speckled
deep blue carpet and the cold night air caused him to breathe deeply. As he
exhaled, his breath became a white mist. The security light behind him
producing a searchlight effect.

Family!

The ache in his
heart weighed heavily as he recollected how life had changed for him
over the last twelve months.

Christmas
seemed to engender the notion that families should be together.

This
year was going to be different. For the first time since the children had been
born, he would be on his own. He honestly believed in the wisdom, perhaps
nobility, by which he had gone without to ensure that their future could be
more certain.

There
the family had two rooms upstairs and two down with an additional scullery at
the rear. It was in this room that he used to see his mother working away at
not only the family’s washing, but piles of clothes from others in order to
make ends meet. There too he had seen his father digging not only his own
allotment, but tilling others so he could add to the subsistence life style in
rural Yorkshire.

There
he had been brought up to accept the old fashioned values of loyalty, respect
and the sanctity of the family unit. He and his wife had had such great dreams
as they started their family. Then tragedy struck them with his wife’s illness
and her desperate fight for life through terrible pain. Eventually the cancer
had won and relieved her of all her agony. She had died, leaving him to bring
up two children in their early teenage years. He had grieved in private to
shelter his children, but the pain was always just under the surface. Especially
now, when he felt he had nothing.

Indeed,
life had been tough ever since. He had scrimped to provide his children with
the best education that he could afford. Most parents expected their teenage
children to get part-time jobs, but not Dan.

“I
will provide. Just use the time to study, gain real skills and create a better
life for yourselves than your mother and I have had!”

That
message was hammered home for years as they grew up.

When
both Sarah and Peter went to university, Dan was fit to burst with pride. He
should have been looking forward to them coming home for Christmas, but he had
sent them into an exile he now desperately regretted. He was not a religious
man in the normally accepted sense, he was not “spiritually certain” or
anything like that but he had been brought up to believe that forgiveness was
only possible with repentance.

His
mind wandered back to that first blow.

Dan’s
first inkling that trouble was brewing was when Sarah came home unexpectedly
from the social services job she had started only a few months earlier. Whilst
he missed his daughter being away from him, he knew she had a life of her own
to live, so her sudden arrival meant that she was missing him or that she a
real problem.

University
had been a tough process for a girl leaving home for the first time, especially
one whose mother had died when she was very young. But she had survived three
years of study and her year out had been spent looking at how local councils
provided support and care for people in need. With her degree in hand, she had
applied to work in a town some distance away. She stayed in touch with her dad
but had grown the wings of independence since she had left home. The director
had set her some tough tasks and she was relishing the challenge. These tasks
took her to situations she had never experienced before, including locations
off the beaten track – gipsy encampments, transport cafes – children in those
situations were often neglected or allowed to run wild.

“Oh,
Dad, you would not believe some of the jobs I have to do. Some people don’t
deserve to have children. Some of the places I’ve visited would make you
shudder.” The poverty and deprivation she had seen reminded her of the stories her
dad used to tell them about his own childhood. Her boss had thought she might
be a bit posh due to the way she spoke, especially bearing in mind the kind of
poor and sometime feckless families with whom she would be dealing. However he soon
discovered that he was delighted with the insights she brought to her
understanding of the problems and, more importantly, the solutions she
proposed.

“Darling,
please look after yourself. I worry about you. Yet, at the same time, I am so
proud of you.”

On that quiet afternoon, almost three months
after Sarah had left home full of hopes and self-confidence, Dan was shocked to
see her walk through his front door.

“Dad,
I have something very important to tell you. I’ve met a nice chap named Fred,
who wants to marry me. I met him at a transport cafe on one of my assignments.”

“So
soon? Please at least develop your skills and get some experience under your
belt.” Dan was aghast.

“Dad,
I am sorry but I’m pregnant.”

Dan
had a sharp intake of breath and could feel a lump the size of a cricket ball
in his throat. He was close to tears, the slap of his hand on his forehead
echoed round the small living area over the bar.

“So
all that scrimping was for nothing! How could you?”

“Dad,
I am really, really sorry, but I do love him!” Sarah too knew that tears were
coming and soon.

“Dad,
it is my life.” She was spluttering now.

Dan
looked at her, shaking. He lifted his right hand to his face, his thumb in his
right eye and his index finger in his left, to wipe the tears. Suddenly, he
could find nothing to say. The maelstrom
of emotions was tearing him apart inside. There was disappointment – bitter,
bitter disappointment, as well as shame. Sarah had been popular in the village,
now what would be people say – the shame of it!

“Dad,
I do love you, but it’s my life.”

“Alright,
alright, you’ve already made that clear!”

“We
are just having a quiet ceremony, no fuss.”

She
left in tears. As she looked back, her father’s face was set like granite. She
pondered whether perhaps this was the beginning of a new life for both of them.

The events which
followed took both of them by surprise, bringing unhappiness as well as
bitterness.

Less
than two years after the modest registry office ceremony in front of just two witnesses
from the transport cafe, Fred had found another woman and Sarah, destitute, had
returned to her dad.

He
turned her away.

Then
he called her back.

"If
you come back, you'll have to work. This place is too big for me as it is. That
child will have to go – let that no-good father bring it up."

“Dad,
do you know just how brutal that sounds? You know that I’d be grateful for a
roof over my head. Look, soon it’ll be Christmas. When you see your grandson
playing with his toys near the Christmas tree, I am sure you’ll think
differently. I just hope you can forgive me. Especially at this time of year. Besides,
Peter will be coming home for Christmas and that will help. Peter's presence
always makes you happy.”

But Dan was adamant and Sarah again left in tears. Dan
too wanted to understand why he had been so harsh on his own flesh and blood. But
Sarah had not considered his feelings in the matter, so why should he spare a
thought for hers?

Some
months later an unexpected letter arrived.

Dear Dad,

I am really sorry that you have
decided that you want nothing to do with your grandson Daniel. He is lovely boy with a cheerful manner and
he is starting to talk and walk. He has a round face just like yours.

I am living in a social services hostel
and being looked after and supported by the very team with which I worked. The
Team Leader is very supportive and in some ways they see me and my situation as
a good test case to see how well or otherwise the “system” is working.

Daniel seems to get on with the
other babies in the nursery. I spend lots of time with him even though I am
working part-time with the team. I have access to a laptop so when he is asleep
I am able to earn something for my keep and ensure that Daniel has a safe base.

I really had thought that seeing
Daniel crawling around the Christmas tree would have appealed to you.

Lots of love,

Sarah xx

***

Dan’s son Peter was in
his final year at agricultural college. Every time he came home he would tell
his dad how much he wanted to put all his new theories into practice. During
his time at college, he had been sponsored to travel and work in various
countries, some in Europe as well as Africa.

Dan's
Christmas present for his son that year was a formidable one.

Alex
Hughes, one of Dan's regular customers, owned the farm next door to the pub. Alex was now well over seventy and had
decided to retire. Having no children of his own to leave the farm to, he had
offered it to Dan for Peter at a very favourable price. Alex only wanted his
beer and his pipe now. He would of course be able to help and provide advice
whenever it was needed.

Dan was
still slowly coming to terms with the news from Sarah when another unexpected
letter arrived.

Dear Dad,

I’m really looking fwd to seeing you
at Christmas.

I’ve so much to tell you about
Africa. I really have learned a great deal in these last four months. I’ve got
all sorts of ideas to make things better for these wretched people.

They have suffered from droughts for
years but the new desalination plant and the channels – just like our fens – have made all the difference in the
coastal regions.

I never thought I would learn the
various dialects of Swahili out here but it seems that I can make myself
understood with most people. Occasionally, I make a mistake. I told a story
recently about seeing some ndovu swinging from branch to branch and they all
burst out laughing. Later I learned that I should have used the word nyani for
monkeys because ndovu are elephants!

The university is really pleased
with progress and the sponsoring company have asked if I can return in the New
Year and stay for at least three years! This is great news Dad so I hope you
will be pleased for me.

Lots of love

Peter

Dan was sure that Peter
would change his mind when he came home and heard what he had provided for him.

His
chest had filled with pride as he explained with great pleasure his fantastic
present to his son. He did not often stock champagne but Dan was convinced that
the time was ripe for a celebration. He carefully opened the bottle and
arranged the glasses on the coffee table in the small lounge upstairs from the
bar. The horror on Peter’s face telegraphed more bad news for Dan.

“Dad,
I didn’t ask you to do this for me,” Peter pleaded.

“I
was so sure that you would be pleased.”

“Look,
Dad, I’m sorry but I just can’t do this yet. I really hope you can forgive me
and try to understand my point of view.”

“Peter,
after all that has happened with your sister, the least I expected was some
stability and common sense from you.”

“Look,
Dad, please … I am begging you because I love you and I appreciate all you have
done for me. But I have seen and done nothing outside my work. Before I settle
down and have kids, I want to travel. For the last ten years my studies had to
come first, just as you wanted. In this last year, I have visited several
farms, some in Eastern Europe and recently in East Africa as you saw from my
letter. I have realised how little I have travelled. And what is more how much
help I could give them now I have this qualification. Besides, lots of
graduates have a gap year, some even have two.”

“Oh
Peter, how ungrateful can you be? You self-centred, inconsiderate, selfish boy! Do you realise what you are throwing way? Don't
you care what I want?”

Peter,
obviously saddened by his father’s reaction, maintained a dignified but
disappointed silence.

“Get out and stay out! How can you expect me
to forgive you? After all I've done for you.” Dan's anger boiled and boiled and
had finally overflowed. He clenched his fists, fixing in his memory the end of
his dreams for his son. He lashed out with his foot, spreading the champagne
all over the floor. How could he forgive him? The peace of mind he was hoping
for had been smashed by the two people he cared for most in the entire world. Yet
he had sent them into an exile that had created deep distress for all of them.

The night air was
making his eyes water. His breath turning to a white mist as his hot breath met
the frosty air.

"Excuse
me; do you have a room, please? Forgive
me for calling so late."

So
intent had he been on reflecting on the events of the past year and on his own
sense of emptiness that Dan had not noticed the stranger approaching.

The
man stood in Dan's shadow, making his features difficult to see clearly. But he
had hair on his face, not a long beard but enough to hide his chin. His eyes
seemed to be dark pools and deep set, giving him a mildly Eastern look.

“Certainly
not! What business can you have at this time of night? Shove off! Most decent
folk are at home with their families!"

That
word fizzed round in his mind again.

"Please
forgive me for calling so late. You are not the first person to refuse me
tonight! But I wish you peace."

The
stranger turned and trudged away slowly through the snow towards the hill
leading away from the pub.

Peace
indeed! As he reflected on what he had
just said to the stranger the realisation hit him that he had treated his own
children in that same brusque and indifferent way. Answering ‘no’ to every question showed a
failure in human sensibility, sensitivity and, above all, respect for another’s
point of view. The way he had treated his children had not been the actions of
a loving father. Was the road to redemption through forgiveness? Had they both
been sorry and sought his forgiveness? Yes, they had! It was for him now to
acknowledge that their apologies should be recognised. That old platitude about
erring being human and forgiveness being divine and his failure to perform an
act of goodwill at the season of goodwill, it all troubled him. They had both
sought his forgiveness but he was still resisting.

In
his eyes they had fallen from grace, but perhaps the greater fall could have
been his own. He could no longer claim to be a loving father.

The church bell struck
midnight. It was Christmas, the season of goodwill – and perhaps forgiveness? Dan
pondered. Had he been too harsh because they had not done his will? He thrust
his head into his hands, a large lump grew in his throat and he felt the tears
dribbling through his fingers. What he had shown to his children had been pride?
Stupid, stupid pride.

Should
he forgive?

How
could he find that peace of which the stranger had spoken?

Dan's
eyes followed his own shadow across the snow towards the hill. In the distance
he could see the stranger, quite clearly now, in the glare of the lights from
the porch.

But
His figure threw no shadow.

Happy
Christmas Everyone! Be kind to one another!

About the Author

David Deanshaw has had a varied business career, firstly
in banking, then as a management consultant and more recently involved in the
regeneration of run down town centres. In addition he had a life in local
politics, including dealings with Government Ministers. He has had several
letters published in The Times, Sunday Times and Birmingham Post of a political and business nature.

He has been involved with every community in which he has
lived for over sixty years.

When asked why he joined a writers
group some years ago, he said “I have been writing business fiction for ages,
so I thought I would try real fiction.”

He intends to use his experience in writing a mixture of
short stories, whilst planning a couple of novels based on situations he saw in
the of finance and politics.

Monday, 23 December 2013

I
took my grandchildren to the Panto. Alice was a comely wench, but she
ultimately led to my downfall. We were encouraged to participate, to call out;
hiss and boo. That’s what you do; why you go.

It was during the second half, we had
enjoyed ice creams; made ourselves comfortable. I was as excited as the kids;
made a spectacle of myself. When we were asked to call for the Cheshire Cat, I
yelled. “We want pussy!”

Two
burly men marched me out of the Circle, made me wait for Ben and Jack in the
foyer.

About the Author

Roger Noons has delighted us many times with his mixture
of dark and light and this one will surely lift a smile. He is a regular
contributor and his work is featured in the Best
of CaféLit 2012.

Sunday, 22 December 2013

Mum and Dad had very little, but
they still made Christmas special for my brother and I when we were young. They
were happy times.

Except for one year …

We knew, by then, there was no
Santa, and our presents were hidden in a locked wardrobe. My brother told my parents he had seen me
find the key and open the wardrobe. It was totally untrue, and I was unfairly
reprimanded. I think he was getting even for the time I buried his favourite
toy in the garden.

That was a Christmas past.

It's why I prefer a Christmas
present.

About the Author

Colin Wyatt is best known for his children’s books and
his children’s stories. He co-created the Poddington
Peas made into a BBC TV series and has worked on a variety of publications
over the year including being Art Editor for 2000 AD. But most of his work has been as an artist for Disney. One
of his latest projects is a series of children’s picture books to raise funds
and awareness for the Born Free Foundation with his stories and illustrations
for The Jet-Set.

Saturday, 21 December 2013

Robert scoops snow into his
glove. He shapes it, pats it down and presses it into the face of the snowman.
I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be, a nose perhaps, but everyone knows a
carrot is best for that. He’s been building the snowman for twenty minutes,
working systematically, rolling the body, then the head, placing twigs where
its fingers are supposed to be. He only looked up once when the cat ran along
the fence, Bill Broad’s big black cat. He steps back and I see his face. He’s
remembering me. He’s remembering the last time we built a snowman and Dad took
a photograph of us. Robert has the photograph now. He took it from my room.
They tell one another that they never go in there, they can’t go in there. But
they do. I’ve seen Mum with her face pressed into my dressing gown, as if she
thinks she can fold herself into it and disappear. I’ve seen her running her
fingers across my things, so lightly she’s afraid if she presses too hard
something will break. Or maybe she’s afraid she will break…

About the Author(s)This is an extract of a story by Debz Hobbs-Wyatt
published in the collection You, Me &
Bit of We published this year by Chuffed Buff Books and one of the excerpts
published with some of the others on their website today in celebration of
National Short Story Day!

I wanted to include this and hope that you will all
follow the links to read some of the other extracts. It celebrates writing in
the first and second person and is available on Amazon: BUY
HERE

Thursday, 19 December 2013

I imagine him standing there with the phone in his hand,
eye brows raised, rolling his eyes at Santa. “The Elf is off sick again.”

I hear children’s voices already waiting in line. Think
about church, the vicar saying we all need to remember there is a Christ in
Christmas.

I know what they think. It’s another excuse, it’s really
a hangover, or too many mince pies. Come on? Stigmata?

I hang up, root for a tissue. Remember there is a Christ in Christmas. I think it as I wipe the
blood from the receiver.

About the Author

Debz Hobbs-Wyatt as well as being the editor for CaféLit,
works as a full time writer. Her short story The Theory of Circles was nominated for the US Pushcart Prize last
year, she was one of only two UK writers short listed in the Commonwealth Short
Story Prize 2013, won the Bath Short Story Award 2013 and her debut novel While No One Was Watching has just been published
by Parthian Books. Special Amazon offer on Paperback
and Kindle
version only 99p now!

Joel stood at the
school gates watching the vehicles collecting his classmates. Not one vehicle
more than a year old and each big enough to transport a dozen kids. He fidgets
from foot to foot thinking about his mum’s unpredictability. They will laugh at
me tomorrow he thinks straightening his tie.

‘I
wish I had the most amazing school pick up ever.’

Suddenly
he hears a screech.

His
mum dressed in a white dress with glittering wings and a wand steps out from a
stretch limo. ‘I’ve come to collect you Joel babe’ she says. ‘Now let’s go walk
Rudolf.’

About the Author

Janet
Bunce lives in Epping Forest, Essex with her husband and enjoys writing.

No Richard, I have no idea what your mother wants for Christmas,
in fact…

Turkey? Stuff the turkey. Richard, I’ve left you.’

About the Author

Jo
Fino says:

I
am a dreamer, an optimist, a worrier too. I started writing again to deal with
a stressful situation and gradually rediscovered my passion. Now I battle to
try to produce something of worth and to have the guts to get it 'out there'. I
have a new passion: my daughter. I want to leave her a legacy, make her proud.
I am working on short stories and a couple of novel ideas, dabble with poetry
and have just started blogging …again. http://twcrumpet.blogspot.co.uk

Since
CafeLit published Jo’s first short story here, her story A Tale of A Smuggler
and His Girl was shortlisted by Honno in their call for ghost stories and her
short story Cruel Summer won the Writer's Forum monthly competition and was
published in issue 146.

He’s
looking, evil intentions camouflaged by the gorgeous smile. One predictable,
weather conversation last week and his hand had swarmed all over my back.
Breathless, I press into a corner of sanctuary. The elevator scurries towards
scary, successful heights; hours until I can retrieve street level anonymity.

Sarah
Barry lives in Co. Kildare, Ireland. She currently enjoys writing Flash Fiction
and Short Stories in rapid bursts between caring for her four children. Sarah’s
first published work was included in the flash fiction anthology, “Once Upon A
Time: A Collection of Unexpected Fairytales” (ed. SJI Holliday and Anna Meade).
Sarah has also been published online at paragraphplanet.com and during the
various Flash Floods hosted by National Flash Fiction Day 2012 and 2013, as
well as on cafelit.co.uk previously. Follow her on Twitter @saraheebarry

Sunday, 15 December 2013

Amparo
rattled through the beaded curtain. She handed him a bag of leftovers.

'Thanks.'
He hesitated, balanced on a razor edge of desire. 'When can I see you?'

'You're
a fool to keep asking.'

'And
you're a beautiful coward.'

She
snorted.

At
home his dogs jostled him, toenails tap-dancing on the flagstones. He tipped
Amparo's leftovers into grubby bowls. An elderly moped belched up the drive.

He
blinked. 'You came?' Stupid, stupid question.

Amparo
appraised him. 'I must be mad.'

He
took her hand. 'Happy Christmas,' he said.

About the Author

Susan
Eames left England over twenty years ago to explore the world and dive its
oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three
continents. She lived in Fiji until recently and is currently vagabonding
around Europe with her husband in a Motorhome.

Friday, 13 December 2013

Alex lay in bed,
apprehensive. He'd done all he could in preparation. Tomorrow was just another
day. Right?

After
what seemed like an eternity of twitching, tossing and turning, he drifted off
to sleep.

But
in his mind he was running. Trying to reach a door that got further away. His
feet were leaden. He heard a monstrous commotion in the distance.
Unintelligible shouting. Growing louder. A fetid odour lingering. It was close.

With
a scream, Alex kicked off the duvet and leaped out of bed. The beast departed
with a voluminous roar.

Damn!
He'd missed the bin men again.

About the Author

Mike
Olley made pop videos but gave it all up to live next to a Spanish castle,
where he grew cactuses, practised carpentry and wrote strange funny stories.
Unable to take the heat any longer, he returned to England with his sense of
humour and a half-baked novel. His first collection of short stories is Better.

Thursday, 12 December 2013

I
didn't touch her. No Sir. I nobut fishin'. Maisie dropped her bonnet in the
creek. While I wades for it, darned if she aint took off her dress. Buck naked
creamy white. My knees start shakin' like a pig about to be skinned.

'Git
here, boy, or I'll holla,' she threatened.

I
turned and ran blind. Left ever'thing. Even my shoes. Figure they got proof
enough. Man they catch me they gonna have a lynch party and I be the guest of
honour.

Gotta
keep runnin', shoes or no.

About the Author

Susan
Eames left England over twenty years ago to explore the world and dive its
oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three
continents. Until recently, Susan lived in Fiji, but is now currently exploring
new possibilities.

Ellen remembered the blue kid
shoes she’d worn as a child, the button fastener bright as a bird’s eye.
Snapshots showed her wearing ballet shoes with satin ribbons. Then came
high-heels, the photographs were of Ellen in the front row of a West End chorus
line. She sighed, thinking of the shoes she had worn on her wedding day, oyster
brocade with tiny pearls.

Later, the carer said, “Here we
are dear, nice and roomy for your poor feet.”

Monday, 9 December 2013

He’d
made it when he jumped off the flat roof of his garage. He’d landed okay when
he’d launched himself off his balcony. Now he stood poised atop his house,
wearing a red cape for effect, his mates throwing beery encouragement up from
below.

He
jumped.

His
red cape billowed behind him. He soared through the air.

He
was-flying! He sailed peacefully, higher and lighter, towards the clouds.

He
looked down. He could see his friends, swarming like panicking ants around
something that lay on the ground. From his celestial height, it looked like a
squashed redcurrant.

About the Author

Jacki Donnellan currently lives in the Netherlands with
her husband and two children. She first started to write while the rest of her
family were off skiing but it's now become an all- year sport. Follow her on
Twitter @DonnellanJacki

Sunday, 8 December 2013

I am intrigued about
who is concealed under a white blanket in front of me. I close the bedroom
window, to shut out damp laden air. An earthy aroma still clings to my nostrils
as I wipe condensation from panes of glass. Yesterday couldn’t have been more
different. A Kingfisher streaked past slender branches of willow that dripped
down into the canal.

Today, winter sunshine is
burning off thick veils of fog. A sorrel is first to appear; then a roan looms
silently into view. When an albino emerges from patchy shadows, three handsome
horses roam loose around the ménage.

About the Author

Alan has been writing short stories for six years. Before
that, he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for seven years. When he
first started writing fiction, his published work was rewarded with
complimentary copies from magazines. His first cheque arrived on Christmas Eve
2009.

In 2011 he made the short list for one
story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. Alan also won first prize,
of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The last three accolades were awarded
by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. Alan’s work has been read out
on Internet radio and his stories are now published in hard copy magazines and
e-zines.

We’re
wearing new outfits, in honour of this mutually important occasion. Our suits are
crafted from the same material, but I have a long tulip skirt in place of
tailored trousers. My smile belies my nerves.

An
unusual situation but we’ve always been very close; we’ve done everything
together throughout our childhood why should we stop now we are adults? Our
family are delighted for us. Glad my brother eventually found the perfect
woman; happy for me beginning work as Registrar.

Friday, 6 December 2013

Remembering Trivia

“I’ve got some bad
news,” said Dad. We were sitting in his old Ford Popular outside the Wesley
Methodist church hall. He’d picked me up from Guides.

My
heart started thumping and my mouth went dry. Had something happened to Mum? Or
Grandma? Or Gran?

“What?”

“President
Kennedy’s been shot.”

Was
that it? Everybody I knew was all right?

“Shot?”

“Yes.
He’s dead.”

“Oh.”

He’d
seemed a nice man to me. Young as well. His wife was very glamorous. Fancy
getting shot. But America was like that, wasn’t it?

“Do
you want to get some chips?”

“Yes
please. With batters.”

About
the Author

Gill James writes fiction for
children, young adults and grown-up adults, and teaches Creative Writing in
Higher Education. Recently she has developed a keen interest in flash fiction.
She is fascinated by how we always remember exactly what we were doing when big
news breaks and she wrote Remembering
Trivia to celebrate the release of her friend Debz-Hobbs Wyatt’s While No
One Was Watching that has J.F. Kennedy’s assassination as the setting.

Sitting
in that wing-back with his broadsheet whilst she padded around in slippers…
shushing her as she struggled to emit the tiniest spritz of Pledge… tutting as
she slapped the cushion she wished was Harry. Those grooves between his
eyebrows like sunken staples…

The
corners of his mouth looked as though they had been caught on fishing line.

Agnes brandished the duster feverishly across
the mantelpiece and sang. Loudly.

Whoops!

Once
she had picked up the pieces of the urn, Agnes watched Harry swirl inside the
drum of the vacuum cleaner.

‘Bloody
racket!’ she mimicked.

About the Author

Helen
Laycock has written two contrasting collections of short stories: Peace
and Disquiet and Light Bites she is working towards
compiling three more. She also has work included in: One Word Anthology.

One
of her stories recently reached the shortlist of the final three at The Ryedale
Book Festival and she has enjoyed success in many other writing competitions,
both for short stories and poetry. Helen also writes children’s fiction and has
completed eight mystery/adventure books for 7 – 12-year olds. These and books
of humorous poetry for both adults and children can be found on her Author
Page. Helen Laycock has had several pieces featured on CafeLit.

Wednesday, 4 December 2013

A trio of Whites perform a
complicated country dance against a shaded fence. A yard away, Peacocks binge
on a Buddleia Black Knight bush, on the periphery of which, trips a Comma; low
profile, feeding on emerging blooms. A Speckled Wood skips into the garden;
nonchalant, ignoring his cousins. If he had the organs, he would surely whistle
as he goes along. A Common Blue darts hither and thither, the epitome of fast
feeding. Stillness, as the Red Admiral arrives to carry out an inspection, take
the salute of the parade. Satisfied, he eventually departs, and normality
returns.

About the Author

Roger
is a regular contributor to the CaféLit site and a couple of his stories have
been selected for the Best of CaféLit 2012.

Tuesday, 3 December 2013

I am beginning to wonder what is wrong with me as I
kneel with my head over the toilet seat and wretch for the umpteenth
time. I have mentally gone through everything I had to eat or drink
yesterday and the previous two and nothing springs to mind that could have
upset me like this. It must be a confounded bug I conclude. Four weeks
later my bug is confirmed, it will reach full gestation in nine months and
probably bug me for the rest of my life but that said I am deliriously happy to
finally become a Mom.

About the Author

Sharon lives in Staffordshire

She writes purely for
fun and from life experiences, it’s a great way of letting things go she says!She would love to
have a novel published one day

Monday, 2 December 2013

Norman
checked his watch. He jiggled his buttocks on the bar stool. The bar mirror
gave him a view of the door. He'd see her first and have time to ditch his
magazine if necessary.
She walked in. What a babe! Should he wave? No!
Not cool, not cool.
He looked down: controlled a giggle and discreetly
flapped his sweaty hands. Don't show your nerves, Norman. Don't look up yet.
Make her wait.
He took a breath and looked up to meet her gaze.
Her magazine lay on an empty table.
What the bloody hell? Norman smoothed his
comb-over, incredulous.

About the author
Susan Eames left England over twenty years ago to
explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short
fiction published on three continents. Until recently, Susan lived in Fiji, but
is currently exploring new possibilities.

Sunday, 1 December 2013

She expertly extracts revenge, dispatching man and beast where
necessary. She dresses well though despises fashion slaves. Her long
brunette hair, gleaming in sunlight, is her vanity. She doesn’t get jokes.
Humour gets in the way for the Fairy Queen’s exterminator of evil.

Only fools cross Deamadrell. She uses her own
adaptations to her world’s ancient spells. Her favourite is to turn an
offender into a frog, ensuring they stay fully aware of what happened, before dumping
them in a heron colony. Nobody complains.

The Kingdom’s herons have never been so well fed.

About
the Author

Allison
Symes writes fairytales with bite. Her first loves are novels and short
stories but has flirted with poems and the odd script. She is part of the
Association of Christian Writers, the Society of Authors and adores
P.G.Wodehouse, Jane Austen and Terry Pratchett.